Horatio's Christmas, 2007
by Neteret
Summary: Adapted from a true story part of why Horatio is who he is.


The following was adapted from a tale told to me by an officer of the law from his own personal experience:

Horatio Caine paused before leaving his office in the Lab, his hand hanging over the light switch. Something had been niggling at his mind as he was preparing to leave. Was it some praise he'd forgotten to give, had he forgotten to shake a hand at the Christmas party? The niggling felt like an unsatisfied hunger, but for what?

The day had been hectic. Christmas Eve and, still, crimes remained at the standard 'too many' in number. He and his team had just barely made it back from the field in time for the small party the police department always put together.

Standing in the doorway, Horatio mentally ticked through what he'd planned to do for the day, besides work, that is. He'd picked up his cleaning, handed out presents, made sure the repairman had received the check he'd sent, and then spent no few minutes staring his depleted bank account. Unexpected expenses had eaten up most of what he'd allotted himself for the month. Living in a fine condo next to the beach didn't save him from such mundane occurrences as a toilet breaking on a Sunday, a couple of weeks ago. The plumber had, of course charged double for the weekend call, including for his time to fetch a new 'throne'. All considering though, the neighbor one floor down had been very understanding about his ruined ceiling, and several feet of flooded carpeting and floor tiles. The redheaded criminalist had made sure the repairs were done before Christmas and, of course, it had cost half again as much as it would have if done in the usual amount of time.

So, to whom had he neglected to send a card, give praise or a pat on the back? Was it a report he was supposed to write? What had he forgotten?

"Sir?"

Startled, Horatio turned to see a young, uniformed officer standing at the top of the stairs with one foot on the landing. Automatically giving his most reassuring smile, he replied, "Yes? What can I do for you?"

"You're Lieutenant Horatio Caine. Right?"

"I am."

"Sir, I am honored to meet you again." A short-billed hat wedged under his left arm, the man put out his right hand.

Taking it, Horatio said, "Again?" Horatio searched the officer's face trying to find some trace of familiarity and failed.

"Yes, sir, again. My name is Riley Dubois. You wouldn't remember me now. The last time you saw me, I was about seven years old, and you were Officer Caine."

"That had to be in New York then. How long ago?"

"Christmas, twenty years ago."

Still at a loss, Horatio could see that the man wanted to talk. He invited him in to have a seat on the small couch in his office.

Without being asked, the man began explaining. "You were a patrolman, then. My mom and dad were having a big fight and the neighbors must have called the cops. I think they were fighting because my mom had bought a Christmas book for me and dad was mad about it. Anyway, you responded to the call. You talked to them. I don't remember what you said, but whatever it was, it took the fire out of both of them. Then, when you saw me standing in the doorway to the bathroom, where I'd hidden, and you asked me to come out. I remember how you checked me over, talking really nice and quietly. I guess you were looking for any bruising, but I didn't know that then. You kept asking if I was okay." As if realizing he was chattering, the man bowed his head in silent embarrassment.

Horatio was still searching, trying to put the words into some context of his past. The Christmas season was always the time for domestic disputes. It was also when suicides increased, so, added to the rest of the usual crimes, Christmases in his life since first donning the blues of NYPD were mostly a blur. He urged, "Continue, son."

"I guess I never really thought, back then, about how poor we were. I never knew any different. I think though, Christmas that year was a little rougher. For our tree, we had this rickety little pine branch Dad had probably found someplace. It was stuck in a coffee can of water with some rocks in it and an old towel wrapped around. It smelled nice if you got close to it. Mom had tied one of her hair ribbons on it."

Seeing scenes like this one were always part of what Christmas was for many police officers across America. People did as well for the holidays, as circumstances would allow; some not as well as others. The strain for many was just too much. Up to this point, though sad, the predicament was their own. Unfortunately, when, in response to these problems some drank too much, some had loud fights with their spouses, or turned to crime, their problems became those of the police as well.

"Anyway, after you checked me out, you got this strange, intent look in your eyes. I think you said something about needing to go into the kitchen. I remember hearing you open up the cupboards one by one and bang them shut. Then you went to the refrigerator. Mom had gone in with you, but didn't seem upset with what you were doing. You came out and never said a word, but I'll never forget the look on your face. After you left, Mom and Dad were okay though, so I didn't feel scared anymore."

Now, memory of the incident was coming back to Horatio. It was the fourth domestic dispute on his shift. "I remember that tree, now. It didn't have any presents around it."

Rubbing the back of his neck, the young man smiled ruefully. "Probably not."

Actually, Horatio remembered a lot more than that tree. At first, all this had been was just another family dispute. He'd gone in, listened to his side, her side, taken notes, talked to the battling duo, and was almost ready to leave when he'd noticed the youngster. It was the sight of that child, poorer by far, than he'd ever been himself, being so hopelessly patient with the hardness of life while living in the midst of it. The look on his face hit him like nothing else had in his short career. He hoped he'd never it see again. (A vain hope. He'd see worse in coming years.)

Speaking softly in his memory, Horatio said, "Your parents were arguing because the money hadn't been spent for food. I think I wanted to point out that they had plenty of food."

Smiling and frowning at the same time, the officer seated on the couch, nodded, staring at his life so long ago. "And you found the cupboards bare. Yeah, I know."

Horatio remembered that the refrigerator was not only empty, it had been turned off. No doubt to save on electricity.

Riley thoughtfully continued his narrative. "Then, that evening, we heard a knock at our door. I was sitting by the radiator, trying to get warm before I had to go to bed. I was reading the book Mom had bought. Dad answered. Mom got up off the couch. All I remember was looking up because no one was saying anything. Dad was just standing there, by the open door. Mom was staring, frozen-like. I got up and ran to see who it was. It was you, Lieutenant Caine. You were so loaded up with stuff I could hardly believe it."

"I remember now." It hadn't been the first case of that sort in his career, but it was the worst. The boy's face had the haunt of missed meals, of puzzled hurt, of trust in a future that might never come, and more. The parents' looks spoke of jobs lost, of hopeless fear, of misplaced anger over not being able to provide even the least of essentials, much less presents for their child.

"That was one of the best Christmases ever. You brought everything! A real tree, a box of tinsel, a whole turkey dinner from a deli, a GI Joe for me, and even some perfume for my mom."

Horatio laughed, staring at the same vision now. "And a tie I bet your father never wore."

"Oh-ho, you're wrong there! When we sat down to eat, Dad tied it up around his neck and wore it over his sweatshirt. He wore it all evening long." The young man's face was wreathed in smiles. "Then, for years afterwards, he wore it every Christmas Eve."

Horatio's chin dropped to his chest as he glowed at the thought of that night, so long ago.

That family dispute had been his last call of the day. He'd gone back to the station and had filled out his report with difficulty. Every word he'd written had been seen through the ghostly image of the boy's face. Then, after he'd signed out, he'd gone to his car. He remembered checking his wallet because he wanted to go to the store to grab something to take home to fix for dinner. In those days, his entire monetary wealth was carried in his pocket. Looking at what was left for the week, he found he had more than enough to get a really nice dinner.

A face again floated over the sight of his fingers counting through the bills. A thought occurred to him. At first, the idea seemed completely self-destructive, but also seemed like there was no other choice. How could he not? Was it really something he should even do? He fought with himself and lost or won, depending on how you looked at it. And so, he'd gone out and spent every cent he'd had on making Christmas for the child who had so much less than he.

"We never forgot your kindness. Dad had so much energy, the next week, I think, he went out and got a pretty nice job. Mom was always mad at herself because she remembers none of us ever said thank you."

Shaking his head, Horatio began, "That was unneces—"

"Yeah, but we should have." Dubois paused as if he remembered something. "You know, I used to wonder why you'd done that for us? Came back, gave us what you did."

Recognizing something in the way the young police officer had said, 'used to wonder', Horatio said, "And then it happened for you. Right?"

Riley's face became very still, very peaceful, and he stared directly into the blue eyes. He nodded just once in a slow bob of the head. "And then it happened for me, a couple of years ago. Now, I get it."

Horatio knew that, even back in the day, when he was just another cop on the beat, many, many members of the police force did what he'd done. Indeed, they still did, filling in the inevitable gaps of organized law enforcement charities. Few talked about their efforts to their fellows. Those who did say something usually got unmercifully teased in the department for being suckers to grifters, for being taken in by con artists. It just wasn't worth the grief and so, they held their peace. Still, they usually repeated their acts of kindness again and again. To Horatio, it was like a hunger that was satisfied only by sharing what he had with others who needed it far more than he.

The Dubois family had changed him. Before, his job was to be a cop, be that guy who wore a badge. That night, the real reason for what he'd spend the rest his life doing had come clear; it was because of that small child, standing at a bathroom door. His job became more than just 'To protect and to serve' the public. It was as if, that night, he got it, he really got it. This child was who he was protecting. Protecting not only from the 'bad guys' but, sometimes, from life itself. 'Serving', was only a small part of what he did, and yet became all of why he wore the badge. His job, from that night forward, was to protect those who couldn't protect themselves; not only the children, but the elderly, the ones with plain bad luck, the ones who just needed respite for a moment. He wanted to serve in any way he could, even if it was only from his own portion of life.

After he'd left them, he'd first gone to church, to give thanks for all he had. Afterwards he'd gone home and had had a small can of Dinty Moore Stew for dinner. It didn't fill him but still, he'd slept very well that night. The next day he'd had dinner with his girlfriends' family.

Still trying to find something familiar in the face now as compared to what he remembered, he recalled he'd last seen this guy as a kid in New York. Also his uniform was of light material and tan, not blue, indicating Florida. That was when he noticed the voice had only a trace of New York. He asked, "Where are you now, that you were able to find me?"

"Well, Dad had a brother down here, over in Broward County. Uncle Jim got him a good job in the fruit warehouse where he worked. That was about fifteen years ago and then, things got better for us. I joined the police force about seven years ago. I was in Broward County and now I'm over at the Coral Gables station. Imagine my surprise, the other night, when watching TV, seeing you being thanked by the Mayor."

Horatio nodded. Once again, the grandstanding Miami Mayor had given an award to him instead of to his team and had made it a media event. At least, this time, it had paid off in his favor, had brought this young man to him. "I'm surprised you recognized me after all these years."

"I could never forget the man who brought Christmas and who inspired me to be a cop."

He could accept that he'd given an entire Christmas to a family. For people who'd had so little, that was easy. Inspirational? Well, it was nice of him to say, anyway.

The police officer looked at his watch and rose to his feet. "I have to go, sir. I'm very happy I was able to meet you again."

"It was a pleasure. And perhaps we'll meet again."

"But, hopefully, not in the line of duty." The traditional response came smoothly from his lips.

After shaking hands, Horatio watched Riley descend the stairs. In the silence of the lab below, he eventually heard the soft whir of machinery as the elevator took the young man to the ground floor.

Glad on many counts for the visit, Horatio now remembered what it was he'd meant to do before going home. The vision of the small boy so long ago, joined today's memory of another little boy and his sister. While on the third crime scene today, a domestic dispute had broken out in the apartment downstairs from the one he was in. Rather than call for a patrol officer, he'd gone down. The scene looked so familiar. Parents fighting, overwhelmed with the vagaries of life at Christmas time, a tiny plastic tree set up on an old TV tray with not one gift under it, two small kids looking resigned, waiting for their parents to stop arguing. He'd settled the parents down, smiled at the kids, and gone back up to finish the investigation.

Horatio now sat at his desk and made a list on a piece of scratch paper. Done and wasting no more time, shoving the paper into his jacket pocket, he flipped off the light switch as he quickly left his office.

Two hours later, the trunk of a tree under his arm, the crown of which dragged on the ground, a box under the other arm, bags in his hands, the handle of another bag in his mouth, Horatio kicked twice at an apartment door.

The door opened a crack. A small person's eye peeked through.

Heard whispered from the background, "Becky, who is it?"

Without a word spoken, the door was flung open. The tiny girl's small form was outlined by the light coming through her threadbare nightie. Her eyes had grown huge.

Rushing to rescue her innocent child from possibly a dangerous intruder, the mother froze when she saw who it actually was. Then the father appeared and stood, gaping. His son looked around from behind him.

From long practice, Horatio remained still, trying to look as friendly as he could, considering he had a bag hanging from his mouth. And, from long practice, he never explained how or why, just said he hoped they could use it and left as quickly as was polite. He used the excuse that he had a party to attend, that he was late.

At home that night, Horatio leaned his elbows on the balcony's balustrade and looked down. Christmas in Miami was warm this year, so many people were celebrating on the beach. The flickering light of the bonfires highlighted the foam of the soft ocean waves. Far out on the horizon, ships lights twinkled. Like an eagle on his aerie, he watched the scene below and felt very content; his hunger had been well satisfied. Taking a sip from the glass of excellent scotch, he felt at peace. For now, too briefly, but for this moment, at least, all was right with the world.

Merry Christmas to all, from a very, very special man.


End file.
